Page 26 of Shadows of Obsession

"I know what you're thinking," he said firmly yet gently. "But I'm not taking no for an answer on this one. The property is huge, and you like to go out exploring and riding Choco pretty far from the house and barn. Having a phone on you just makes sense for safety."

He motioned with a tilt of his head for me to join him at the kitchen table, and when I complied, sliding into the chair across from him, he continued. He suggested we go into town to the phone store, where he'd arrange for me to pick out a new smartphone that would beregistered solely under his account, not mine, ensuring there'd be no way for anyone to trace it back to me.

I mulled over his practical proposal, finding his reasoning sound. As much as I still carried the fear of being tracked, I knew I needed some way to contact Connor if necessary. Especially when I was out riding Choco on the trails. Seeing the warm yet determined look in his eyes, I slowly relented with a nod, agreeing on the condition that he accompany me into town.

Connor smiled, the worry lines around his eyes easing. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of sending you out there alone."

I sighed, leaning back in my chair as Connor prepared to head out for work. Before he left the kitchen, he leaned in and showed me the photo on his phone, which made me chuckle. It was of Choco sprawled on the ground mid-roll, all four legs comically sticking straight up, his bright white socks pointing upward like little flags. The amusing image lifted my spirits, and I decided I deserved a relaxing break outdoors with the horses after finishing the cleaning.

Following Connor out of the kitchen, I trailed slightly behind him as we made our way across the property toward the large sale barn where his office was located. We passed a few of his ranch hands along the way, the men nodding and murmuring respectful greetings. Most of them were dressed in the familiar attire of worn jeans, dusty boots, and faded button-downs or T-shirts.

Once inside Connor's office, I settled into one of the plush leather visitor's chairs as he made a call to a potential client, deftly setting up a time for them to come view some of the horses he had for sale. Connor's family had been deeply rooted in the business of raising and training world-class Quarter Horses for over fifty years, a multigenerational passion that began with his grandfather. It was clear that this love for the animals ran deep in the family's blood, and Connor was now the torchbearer carrying the business into the future.

Sitting across from him in the cozy yet refined confines of his office, I glanced around at the décor that spoke to this rich heritage. The walls were a gallery of photographs capturing treasured moments from the farm's earliest days, through to the present. Images of horse shows, training sessions, and family gatherings wove together into a tapestry of decades of dedication and passion.

Connor's office exuded warmth and understated luxury. The massive walnut desk commanded the space, home to his sleek iMac, desk phone, and tablet. The chairs were high-end and invitingly comfortable, the rich brown leather worn soft in places from years of use. Along one wall, a long table held extra two-way radios and their chargers, ready for the ranch hands to return and recharge at the end of their shifts.

Directly behind Connor's chair, a broad window overlooked one of the property's training arenas. The setup allowed him to supervise training sessions while also giving potential clients a glimpse of the caliber of work they could expect. To the left of the window, a large annual calendar hung prominently, its rows and columns densely filled with upcoming horse show dates, client meetings, breeding schedules, and other key events. I couldn't help but notice that most of the show locations were out of state, which made me wonder how often Connor had to travel for business.

Connor ended his phone call and caught me observing my surroundings, my gaze resting on the arena visible through the window. Out there, Mark, one of the experienced ranch hands, was lunging a two-year-old colt. The young horse wasn't yet ready to be saddled but was learning vital ground manners and vocal cues.

"That one's a son of the stallion you met the day you first showed up here," Connor commented, leaning back in his chair. "He's going to be a true champion, just like his sire."

Through the window, I watched Mark, his shaggy blonde hair blowing lightly in the breeze beneath a well-worn black cowboy hat. He was dressed in the standard ranch uniform, faded Wranglers, a green plaid shirt with pearl snaps, and dusty brown boots. He had a build similar to Connor's: fit and strong from working on the ranch, though his relaxed demeanor set him apart. He expertly instructed the colt to lope in a smooth, collected manner, the young horse's movements graceful yet powerful.

"He definitely has the potential," I agreed, my eyes tracking the promising talent as it moved with a confident, athletic gait.

A polite knock at the office door interrupted the moment, and Denny entered with his familiar dusty swagger. He leaned his frame against the table, adopting a casual yet respectful posture. Hisweathered face looked even more lined under the office light, and his gray-white mustache was neatly trimmed beneath the brim of his tan cowboy hat. He wore his usual outfit, denim overalls over a faded blue work shirt, the fabric worn soft from countless washings.

Denny had that rough-around-the-edges look that might intimidate newcomers at first, but after spending time here, I'd quickly learned that beneath his rugged exterior, he was courteous and deeply loyal. His commitment to the animals and to Connor's family legacy was evident in everything he did.

"Good morning, Miss Anna," Denny greeted, tipping his weathered cowboy hat politely before turning his attention to the calendar. He swiftly scribbled a few notations with a stubby pencil pulled from behind his ear, then jerked his thumb toward the arena where Mark was still working.

"He's gonna be ready to start breaking in this coming week, boss," Denny remarked gruffly to Connor. "I don't think we should wait any longer. He's got himself a real good, sound mind on him, and the sooner we get him going under saddle, the sooner we can start getting him ready for the shows."

Connor watched the colt intently, weighing Denny's advice. "Okay, go ahead and assign Paul to start him," he finally instructed with a decisive nod. He made a few keystrokes on his computer, likely updating his records.

I appreciated this insider's glimpse into Connor's daily life. It was a fascinating contrast to his carefree younger days back in Vermont, where he'd embraced more of a backcountry lifestyle and a completely different style of riding. Here, at the elite Quarter Horse ranch, he seamlessly utilized his Western discipline expertise to breed, train, and showcase the world-class horses his family had become renowned for over the decades.

But back in those more laid-back Vermont days, Connor had eagerly explored English riding, dabbling in Equitation and Jumpers to broaden his horsemanship skills. I fondly remembered the first time Sam and I had watched him display his natural talent aboard a high-spirited jumper. Despite being raised primarily as a Western rider, he'd adapted to the intricacies of English style with impressive ease.

It wasn't long before the fearless Connor was entering local show-jumping competitions, borrowing one of Sam's horses to compete alongside us. Though his roots were firmly planted in Western riding, Connor's ability to transition so skillfully between disciplines demonstrated not only his talent but also his passion for learning and expanding his horizons. It made me appreciate and respect him all the more.

I got up from my chair and wished both Denny and Connor a polite good afternoon before making my way out of the office. I decided I wanted to spend some quality time simply grooming and pampering Choco—not for a ride, but just to bond with him.

As I left the office area and crossed the property toward the other barn, I couldn't help but notice Jaxon's Jeep parked off to the side, the black paint dusty from the dirt roads, one of the back windows partially rolled down. His tall figure lounged in the driver's seat with the door propped open, one boot-clad foot stretched out onto the running board. He was still wearing the same navy T-shirt and faded jeans from earlier, though he'd pulled on a black baseball cap, the brim casting his face in shadow. He appeared completely engrossed in something on his phone screen.

Our eyes met fleetingly as I passed by, his gaze sharp and unyielding as always, even in the shade of that cap. Mine were instinctively cautious as I quickly averted my stare and continued toward the barn. I could feel the weight of his eyes lingering on my retreating form even after I'd looked away, a prickling awareness rising between my shoulder blades.

Once inside the dimly lit yet spacious barn, I exhaled a soft sigh of relief at the temporary escape from Jaxon's penetrating presence. The familiar scents of hay, leather, and horses wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. I efficiently gathered Choco's grooming supplies—stiff bristle brushes, a rubber curry comb, a hoof pick, and my favorite horse-safe shampoo in its blue bottle.

When I stepped back outside into the warmth of the late-morning sun, I noticed his Jeep was still parked in the same spot, but there was no sign of Jaxon himself anywhere. A small smile played across my lips as the tension in my shoulders eased. I wasn't particularly keen on him silently observing me while I tended to my beloved horse. Hisabsence was a welcome, if momentary, reprieve from the strain that so often accompanied his company these days.

With my supplies tucked under one arm, I went through the gate and headed into the pasture to find Choco, who was contentedly grazing with his herd mates. I was eager to put my focus into the simple, therapeutic act of grooming and bathing him. The thought of spending an hour or two in the soothing company of my equine friend was deeply comforting after the tensions of the earlier altercation with Jaxon.

As I was wrapping up my regimen, meticulously brushing Choco to a splendid shine, his copper coat gleaming in the sunlight and his white socks practically glowing, I glanced up and noticed a fuming Jaxon storming out of the other barn. He'd shed the baseball cap, clenching it in his fist, and his dark hair was disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. His eyes immediately scanned the area until they locked dead onto mine, the sudden, intense eye contact hitting me like a punch to the chest. His brows were tightly knit, jaw clenched, fists curling at his sides. Even from this distance, I could see the tension radiating through his entire body, from his rigid shoulders down to his planted stance.

Without a moment's hesitation, he turned, stalked toward his Jeep, wrenched the driver's-side door open, and peeled out in a spray of loose gravel, the ear-splitting screech of tires echoing across the yard.